


Eidolon

by darkhorse82



Series: Light [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 10/10 would friend again, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Gen, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Heavy Angst, Men Crying, Panic Attacks, Post-Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, really just John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:15:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23019151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkhorse82/pseuds/darkhorse82
Summary: Eidolon: 1. an idealized person or thing 2. a specter or phantomPretty sure there's a law that states Sherlock writers have to do a post-Reichenbach John fic. This is mine, loosely adjacent to the "Light" series, but can stand alone.
Series: Light [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1340707
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	Eidolon

**Author's Note:**

> mind the tags, John is in a very dark place through the majority of the fic. 
> 
> I have no strong opinions on Mary, but she's not here because she doesn't fulfill my need for John angst/whump.
> 
> Listen to some music while you read!
> 
> Eidolon Alpha-Rishloo https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kL2-zZptGuI
> 
> Eidolon-Karnivool https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q_XQSdf8GH4
> 
> Emotionless-Red Sun Rising https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=awyBrr0P69A
> 
> In a Memory-Butterfly Effect https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yxa0X5xtOto
> 
> Perfect-Acroma https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wnUdNaJnWZ0
> 
> Red Bird-Addict https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gwNJ2wxW3r8

He was dreaming of the red bird again. It had become a recurring theme of late, and he didn’t know the symbolism. He wasn’t sure why it was red; why not black, like the coat he initially assumed the bird was based on. The feathered wings coincided nicely with the flailing arms of someone falling from a great height, he thought. But no, the bird soared, silent and free. It would have been peaceful, a great crimson bird flying easily through a cloudless blue sky, if it hadn’t been vaguely ominous. Like it was a message he should be paying attention to.

Unfortunately, the bird never stuck around, and the clear blue faded to cloudy gray, and instead of the bird drifting calmly across the sky, it mutated to the ebony form of a man, arms pinwheeling as he plummeted. This realm wasn’t silent or peaceful. It was full of last words, screams, and the wet smack of a body on the pavement. It was full of tears and grief, and gory raven locks.

/*/*/*/*/

John woke and went about his morning ritual: toast and tea. Maybe he’d remember to only grab one mug today. Maybe he’d take a shower today. Maybe he’d talk to a living human being today. 

He scoffed. Unlikely. It had been eight days since the funeral, and people were still giving him “space.” That was fine; he didn’t really feel like talking anyway. He didn’t feel like eating either, but it was more habit than hunger. 

After finishing his meager breakfast, he put on yesterday’s clothes. They might have been last week’s clothes, too, he wasn’t sure. He left the flat and took the tube as far as he could before walking the rest of the way to the cemetery. He could hail a cab, but then he’d have to talk to someone. Besides, walking from the station to the cemetery gave him some time to think about what he’d say to Sherlock.

When he arrived, he swiped at what little debris had gathered on the shiny black stone from the night before. “Hey Sherlock,” he started. “Nothing new since yesterday really. I’m supposed to go back to the surgery tomorrow, but I don’t know. Sarah’s been pretty decent about the whole thing, giving me the full week, but...I don’t know,” he said again. John sighed. “I don’t know about much anymore, to be honest. This feels a little like getting discharged, yeah?” He chuckled darkly. “Look how that went. And you’re not here to ‘save me’ this time.” He bent his head back, face to the sky. “What do you think about dream interpretation? Did we ever talk about that? I can’t imagine you’d put much stock in it; too much like a horoscope.” John looked back down at the grave. “I just wonder what the red bird means. It doesn’t seem like a nightmare, I’m not scared of it, but it’s kind of...creepy? And it usually leads to nightmares. The real ones. The ones where you—ah, fuck,” he choked, as his throat closed. “None of that today, Watson,” he muttered to himself. He laid his hand on the cold stone, and lowered himself to the ground with his back against it. He unlocked his phone and began scrolling through the local news, keeping Sherlock updated on the current affairs of the city, and pointing out any crimes that needed to be solved. Eventually John switched over to their friends, but there wasn’t much to say as he hadn’t spoken to anyone since the funeral. 

John heaved himself to his feet with a groan and a sigh, feeling eight years older rather than eight days. “I should go. I’ll try to make it here before my shift tomorrow, but I don’t think they open the gates that early. I’ll definitely be here, though. See you later.” 

John never said “goodbye.” 

He was halfway to the tube station when a sleek black sedan pulled up next to him. John rolled his eyes. Fucking Mycroft. He kept walking and ignored the car.

“Dr Watson!” Mycroft called to him. 

John kept walking.

“John! This.. _.devotion_...isn’t going to bring him back! He wouldn’t want you to chase after him like this!”

John felt something icy settle in his chest and he whirled back to face Sherlock’s brother. “Oh, and I suppose he wanted you to spill all his secrets to bloody Moriarty! Let’s not pretend you know what anyone wants when your expertise on the matter led your own brother to his death!” he spat, voice slightly raspy with emotion. “Piss off Mycroft, I don’t want to deal with you right now.” John turned stalked away, leaving Mycroft with a worried frown on his normally stony face.

/*/*/*/

“Sorry I’m so late, Sherlock. I was right, the cemetery isn’t open early enough for me to get here before I have to be at the clinic. We’ll have to change our meeting time to evenings now, I suppose.”

John settled in his usual spot, back against the polished onyx granite. “It wasn’t too bad, actually, my first day back. Patients haven’t changed at all, though I don’t know why I expected they would. Too many people trying to diagnose themselves via the internet, too many people who didn’t get a flu jab, too many people who wait too long to be seen for what was originally a minor ailment. Boring, you’d say. Dull.” He sighed. “It is. Everything is.”

/*/*/*/*/

He had a routine: wake up, have his tea and toast, go to work, visit Sherlock, come home, have a cuppa and maybe whatever leftovers Mrs Hudson brought him (or toast again), go to bed, dream/nightmare, repeat.

He was rapidly losing weight, at least three stone in the first month Sherlock had been gone. That should concern him as a doctor; it would if he were dealing with a patient. He rarely brought a lunch with him to work, settling instead for whatever was in the break-room vending machine that he thought he could stomach. Most things sat heavily, so he stuck mostly with cracker-like snacks. Sometimes he’d get a flash of his old appetite and end up at a nearby cafe, or Sarah would pretend that she’d packed too much of her own lunch and John would have an apple or banana. 

This pity should bother him, because that’s what John believed it was, pity, but he simply didn’t have the energy to care. John didn’t have the energy for much anymore. He saw dishes that needed washing up, he ignored them, putting them off for “later”. After all, what was the point in wasting water on one mug or spoon? He didn’t cook anymore, so there were rarely enough dirty dishes to warrant the effort. Once the sink was full, however, the task became too daunting, and John let them continue to pile up. He’d look at them, know there were some dishes that he should wash and get back to Mrs Hudson, but he was too tired. After work tomorrow, or on my next day off, he thought.

Clothes that used to be folded and put away were relegated to one end of the couch. Anything he wore was thrown on haphazardly and wrinkled. Dirty laundry piled up on the floor in his room. Trash bins overflowed. He’d tie up a full bag, only to set it on the floor and “forget” to take it out with him when he left for work. He currently had four bags of rubbish ready to go.

Mrs Hudson would catch him in the stairs occasionally, a sad-sympathetic-pitying look on her face, and try to engage him in conversation. Sometimes, on the better days, the two of them would go upstairs and clean together, she’d get her dishes back, and they’d reminisce about Sherlock without too much crying. She would tell him of Sherlock’s pre-John days, and John told her stories of their shenanigans, like stealing an ashtray from Buckingham Palace.

Lestrade texted a few times, asked him to meet at a pub or grab a quick coffee on Lestrade’s lunch break if the DI was working a night shift. John agreed to coffee; he was in control of himself enough to know he needed to stay away from alcohol. 

While John knew he wasn’t “better,” not by a long shot, he felt the front he was putting up was solidifying, that eventually, the good days would outnumber the bad, and people would believe he was getting better. 

Including himself.

/*/*/*/

The red bird still haunted his dreams.

Tonight he seemed to be soaring alongside it rather than looking up at it like usual. Suddenly the bird dropped into a nosedive, taking John’s perspective with it, plummeting down, wind screaming past his ears. The great wings snapped open, abruptly stopping their descent and shaking loose a few scarlet feathers. John watched them float gently to the ground, coming to rest around Sherlock’s head like a bloody halo, the dead man’s pale blank eyes moving to meet John’s.

John surged upright, clapping a hand over his mouth to stifle the scream, shaking, stomach having seemingly dropped to the floor. His other hand twisted in the sheets as he fought to control his breathing. Cold sweat gathered at his temples and rolled down to the hollow of his throat, over the mad fluttering of his heart.

“Jesus,” he whispered, finally dropping the hand at his mouth. 

Several minutes passed before John was able to stand on wobbly legs and make his way downstairs to the bathroom where he splashed cool water on his face and drank deeply, washing away the dryness in his mouth.

Instead of going back to bed, knowing he’d find no further rest there, he laid down on the couch and turned on the telly at low volume. He let himself be lulled back to an uneasy sleep by whatever overnight programming had to offer.

/*//*/*/*

Sarah commented on his appearance the next day.

“John, are you all right? You look a little...”

He knew exactly what he looked like, having unfortunately caught a glimpse in the mirror this morning. The circles around his eyes were darkened to a bruised apple color from lack of sleep, his night on the couch uncomfortable and still riddled with dreams of the red bird. The alarm on his phone had been muffled underneath one of the cushions, so he overslept and got ready in a hurry, forgoing a shower and throwing on whatever clothes seemed clean. He had run his hands through his hair on the cab ride over, but it wasn’t nearly enough to straighten out what laying on it damp with sweat had done to it.

In short, John was a mess.

“I know, Sarah, I’m sorry. I—it wasn’t a good night last night.”

She reached out and squeezed his bicep, “It’s fine, John, I just want to make sure you’re okay. You’re allowed to have bad days,” she said with a sympathetic smile.

_“I was in the army!” he shouted, putting Sherlock in a headlock._

_“You were a doctor!” Sherlock retorted._

_“I had bad days!”_

He flinched out of the memory at the sound of Sarah calling his name. “Sorry,” he apologized again.

John went through his shift in a sort of fugue, aware that he was seeing patients and filling out paperwork and conversing with the nurses between patients, but he didn’t retain any of it. He likened it to going from one place to another without realizing how you got there, or a drunken blackout without the liquor. That was a bit not good, but if he quit his job now, he really wouldn’t have anything left. Maybe it was time to see someone…He considered going back to Ella or even finding a new therapist altogether, but that would mean actually facing his issues and allowing someone in, and John didn’t think he was ready for that. He’d discuss it with Sherlock tonight.

//*/*/****

Settling down at his usual spot with his back against the headstone, John began to talk. “I know you didn’t think she did a good job the first time she saw me, but I’ve been thinking about going back to Ella. I don’t really want to, but I can’t go on at the surgery like I have been. I don’t remember if I eat lunch most days; who’s to say I won’t forget to write a prescription?” He frowned thoughtfully. “Speaking of, maybe she could give me something to help me sleep, or explain what the red bird means.” He leaned his head back against the stone and sighed. “I’ve lost friends before, mates in the army. None of them affected me like this. I want...I want someone to tell me _why._ Why you did it, why you made me watch, _why it hurts so much._ ”

/*/*/*/*/

Three months after Sherlock’s fall, John was firmly entrenched in his personal daily grind. He never did make an appointment with Ella. After careful consideration, he chose to power through, sure that at some point, he would turn the corner and make it to the “acceptance” part of the stages of grief. Once he learned to live without Sherlock, everything would fall into place. 

The red bird was a staple in his dreams, appearing at least three times a week. He no longer questioned it, and woke up with a sore jaw after each one from clenching his teeth so hard in his sleep. He’d learned to keep the nightmares quiet, if not completely silent, to prevent a concerned Mrs Hudson from running up to comfort him. He rarely managed more than four hours of decent uninterrupted sleep, and usually it was closer to two. The only good thing was that his weight seemed to have plateaued; he was no longer losing pounds.

Sarah kept him on at the clinic; despite everything else, he was still a good doctor. She also probably realized that it was the only lifeline he had left. He worked from when the clinic opened to about ninety minutes before the cemetery closed, giving him enough time to visit Sherlock every night. 

Currently, though, some sort of bug was tearing through the clinic, leaving them short-staffed. It was a busier than usual day and they were down two doctors. Once John was finished with his own patients, he started taking on extras from those who had called in. One after another, they kept coming. John lost track of time, and before he knew it, it was dark, Sarah was escorting her last patient out, and locking up. 

John rubbed his blurry eyes. “Please tell me no one else is coming,” he said tiredly. He just wanted to go to bed.

Sarah gave him an exhausted smile of her own. “No, thankfully, and I’ve pulled in another locum doctor to help with the backlog this caused. We should be back to normal tomorrow. Go home, John, get some sleep. You’ve certainly earned it.”

He nodded and shot her a brief but genuine smile. “You too, Sarah,” he said, grabbing his jacket. Typically he took the tube home to unwind, but tonight he caught a cab and went directly home. 

John kicked off his shoes and threw his jacket on the floor and himself into bed and was asleep in seconds. If he dreamed of the red bird, he didn’t remember.

/*/*/*/*/*

It became John’s new routine to stay at the clinic, work until he was exhausted (or closing time, whichever came first) and then head home and collapse into bed. Being nearly unconscious seemed to be the best way to control the nightmares, but it wasn’t infallible. They still woke him more than he’d like to admit, though it was easier to fall back asleep when even the adrenaline couldn’t break through the overwhelming fatigue.

John was aware, of course, that this habit broke the communication he’d had with Sherlock. It hurt, to not be able to talk to his friend in the cool, quiet comfort of the cemetery, but it was a price he was willing to pay to be able to sleep even a little bit more. Sherlock had had his crashes too, times where he’d hole up in his bedroom for days on end recovering from an intense case, so John thought he’d understand. He ignored the voice in the back of his head reminding him that Sherlock wasn’t around to understand.

Working himself to near burnout was helping (marginally), at least at home, but his work was suffering for it. He was finding it harder to concentrate, and it took longer than it used to for him to fill out a patient’s paperwork. John powered through, however, and accepted the slow down as part of the process. He’d just have to stay later to make sure the work got done. Sarah should be okay with that.

John asked to speak to her privately two weeks or so after he started his extended hours. He felt heavy, and simply let gravity take him down to sit in the chair she offered.

“Sarah,” he began, but she cut him off with a raised hand.

“John. I know what you’re going to ask, and the answer is no. You can’t stay later to catch up on paperwork.”

He frowned. “Why not? Look, I know I’ve slowed down a bit, but that’s because I’ve taken on so many patients. I just need more time to--”

She cut him off again. “No, John, it’s not because of the increased workload. It’s because you’re so overtired you’re barely functioning. We’re doctors, John, some level of rundown is to be expected, but this...this is dangerous, and quite frankly a little scary.”

“Sarah,” he tried again.

“I can barely read your handwriting, your documentation is full of typos and wandering thoughts, and honestly, I’m worried about misdiagnoses.”

John shot to his feet, resolutely ignoring the way the room spun and his vision tunneled. “Misdiagnoses? Okay, my documentation leaves something to be desired, which is why I’m asking to stay and fix it, but I wouldn’t--”

Sarah dropped a patient’s record on the desk between them. “Wouldn’t you? Six year old girl came in two days ago with her mother, who said the girl had been complaining of eye pain and itchiness. You diagnosed it as pink-eye and sent her home with drops. I got a call from a very upset mother yesterday telling me that the child actually had a detached retina!”

John dropped back into the chair as if his strings had been cut. “Is she—did they--?”

“Surgeons were able to repair the damage, so her sight has been saved, but it was a near thing.” Sarah circled the desk and knelt next to John. “I don’t want to do this John; I know how much this means to you, but you can’t be here if you’re not at your best,” she said softly, and laid a hand on his knee. “You need help, John, professional help, because whatever you’ve been doing on your own isn’t working.”

Throat too tight to respond, John simply looked away.

Sarah squeezed his knee to regain his attention. “Right? Please, John. Once you’re back on your feet, your place here will be waiting for you. And if you need anything, I’m here too.”

He looked down at her watery eyes, knowing she meant it. Not trusting his voice, he nodded and got to his feet, swaying a bit before leaving the clinic.

John didn’t remember the cab ride home or unlocking the door or trudging up the seventeen steps; he only had one thing on his mind: the whiskey in one of the kitchen cabinets, and once it was in his grasp, he didn’t bother with a glass, instead taking long pulls straight from the bottle. He went into the living room and sat heavily on the couch, leaning forward with his head over his knees, trying to breathe, the bottle dangling precariously in his right hand while his shaking left covered his face. 

John spent the next few days in an alcohol induced haze, not bothering to get up from where he’d collapsed on the sofa unless it was to find more liquor or to use the bathroom. 

It wasn’t until the fourth day that Mrs Hudson came to investigate, finding him sprawled on the sofa, eyes staring glassily at nothing in particular. He’d run out of alcohol early yesterday, so he was unwelcomely sober, and just as hungover. 

“Oh, John,” Mrs Hudson said quietly, noting the bottles and correctly assuming his state. “What happened, dear?”

“Lost my job,” he said, dropping an arm over his eyes. He heard Mrs Hudson take in a breath in surprise.

“But why? You were so dedicated!”

John huffed a bitter laugh. “Doesn’t count for shit if I’m not good at it.”

“Don’t say such things, John Watson! You’re a very good doctor! Just look at all the times you’ve tended to me when I’ve been under the weather or my hip acts up!”

He shook his head, arm still draped over it.

“Or all the times you had to patch up Sherlock when he got in trouble!”

John mustered the strength to raise his head and glare. “Don’t.”

She frowned at him. “You can’t pretend like he never existed, John. I know how much it hurts, to know that he’s gone, but--”

“But what?” he snapped, levering himself into a sitting position. 

Her eyes welled and her lip wobbled. “But you can’t try to forget him, because who else can I talk to about him?”

And now John felt like a huge piece of shit. He rubbed his face. “I’m sorry, Mrs Hudson, I’ve spent the past few days trying to drown everything. I wasn’t thinking of what that would do to you.”

She sat down next to him and wrapped him a gentle hug. “It’s okay, dear, we’re not our best when we’re grieving. Come on now, up you get. Into the shower. I’ll bring up some leftovers and we’ll work on the hangover.”

He hugged her back tightly. “Thanks for not giving up on me yet.”

*/*/*/*/*/

The new routine John created for himself consisted of waking up whenever, eating whenever, and going to bed whenever. Waking up early for a job he no longer had was a hard habit to break, but a few nights staying up until two or three in the morning ended that problem. He found he slept better in the daylight for some reason, and so he attempted to switch his schedule as best he could. If he was asleep at night, he kept a light on. It made him feel a little childish, as if he was afraid of the dark, but it seemed to help, at least a little. There weren’t so many shadows then.

John rarely left the flat anymore; most of his meals were made by Mrs Hudson now, and she tended to pick up things like milk and tea for him while she was out. He knew he shouldn’t be taking advantage of her kindness, but he also realized that this was her way of coping as well. She was dealing with Sherlock’s death by taking extra care of him. John hated it, the coddling, but didn’t have it in him to ask her to stop.

One of the few times he headed out to the shops to grab an essential, about four or five weeks after he lost his job, he caught a flash of something out of the corner of his eye. A fluttering corner of a black coat. Shaking his head, he joked to himself that he was hallucinating now, and wasn’t that screwed up?

/*/*/*/*/

John couldn’t get that non-glimpse of something that maybe could have been something that looked a little possibly like Sherlock’s coat out of his head, however, so the next day he found himself out wandering near where he’d seen it. He came back without any additional sightings, so he dismissed it as a coincidence. 

But Sherlock didn’t believe in coincidences.

Now John was on a mission. He had all the time in the world, and was certain that Mycroft would continue to pay his rent (he was under no illusions who had been taking care of him financially the past few months. It was the least the bastard could do after getting Sherlock killed.) He bought a large map of London and drew a grid over it, crossing out and dating the two he’d already searched.

He began to wander the city, looking for...well, he wasn’t really sure. The little notebook he used on cases was now used to document “Sherlock sightings,” the things that made him do a double take or follow someone for blocks without realizing it. Anything would trigger it: the flap of a coat, dark curly hair, long violinist fingers. Sometimes it was a scent: the same shampoo Sherlock used or his aftershave. A deep voice could also do it, or even the sound of a stringed instrument, whether it was played well or not. He’d have to follow and confirm, and he’d write the encounter in his notebook and cross off the grid square on his map.

He rarely paid attention to where he was, and often ended up in less savory areas of the city. The first time it happened, he considered going back, but he’d been trying to hone in on a screeching that sounded awfully like someone was very angry with a violin, so he continued on. John had stopped at one of the CCTV cameras and waved, figuring that if he ended up missing, Mycroft had his last known position. Eventually he found the source of the screeching: a metal pole dangling from some rigging that was swaying in a draft against the remains of a stone wall. Frowning as he scribbled his note, he headed back home. 

/**//*/*/

John stood beside the red bird. They seemed to be in an open field, emerald grass waving in a gentle breeze as far as he could see under a cerulean sky. The bird abruptly took flight, causing John to raise his arms and duck his head to protect himself from the buffeting wings. When he looked back to where the bird had been, a glossy black headstone was in its place, facing him.

Something drifted past his head, and he watched two feathers float down to land softly under his clenched fists like drops of blood at his feet. Feet that stood on Sherlock’s grave.

**/*/*/*/*/

John crossed off the grid that contained the cemetery. If he was looking for signs of Sherlock, he certainly wouldn’t be there, would he.

There was a very fine line between delusion and reality, and John wasn’t sure which side of it he was walking. On one hand, if anyone could fake falling from a building, it was Sherlock fucking Holmes. On the other, he’d seen, heard, felt Sherlock die. What was real? Were the things he’d experienced that day reality, or was there still a chance that Sherlock had pulled off the ultimate magic trick? John didn’t know, and it scared him. He couldn’t stop looking, or else it would become real, permanent, and if Sherlock was truly dead, what did that mean for John? It hit him like a slap in the face: the realization that if he accepted Sherlock’s death, he would be nothing. 

Waking up most days, he felt more like a cold cadaver. He was tired and chilled and sore all the time. He spent most of his time out searching his grid, following strangers or sneaking into abandoned buildings. It was a wonder he hadn’t been arrested yet, or at least chased off. Part of it had to be Mycroft’s influence. The man had to realize what John was doing, but hadn’t approached him yet. Good, that suited John fine; he absolutely didn’t want to talk to Mycroft. 

/*/*/*/*

John was a month or so into his endeavor. He’d left the flat after dinner, intent on spending the whole night out. He figured he’d be able to go through three, maybe four squares on his grid. Depending on what he found, of course. Sometimes he followed a sighting into a grid he’d already searched or one he hadn’t planned on searching yet. There was a method to his madness, at least. 

Arriving at his starting point, he picked a direction and began walking, keeping eyes and ears open. He was hoping to make it to sunrise on this one; sometimes the night searches got to be too much and he’d end up home earlier than expected. The silence and the shadows that waited for him in empty alleys and darkened buildings did strange things to his head, made him see and hear things that weren’t there. The Browning was tucked into the waistband of his pants. He hadn’t used it (yet) but the familiar weight was comforting.

John crossed a well-lit street. It was still early enough that there were people about, but not many. His attention was caught by a car door slamming as a cab pulled up and let out its passenger. John continued walking slowly as he scanned the handful of people that loitered around the drop-off point, which appeared to be a pub. Dismissing the pub crowd, he turned to head down another street but suddenly threw himself into reverse, taking a few steps backwards as he glimpsed a man across from the pub. Tall, longish dark hair, black coat. Quickly moving out of sight around a corner.

Cursing under his breath, John jogged to catch up. Cursed again as he didn’t spot him right away and stood on the sidewalk looking around anxiously. “Shit shit shit shit,” he chanted, snapping his head back and forth and drawing concerned stares.

There! Nearly a block away, John spotted him again, noting his height. He broke into another jog, this time making sure to keep the tall man in his sights. His target suddenly stopped and looked at his watch before ducking into a cafe. John didn’t go in, but waited outside nearby. If this was Sherlock, he didn’t want a public confrontation. John glanced at his own watch, surprised to find that it was nearly 10pm. He looked back up to find the man already out of the cafe and off again, this time with a coffee.

John chuckled quietly to himself. Just like Sherlock to be drinking caffeine at this time of night. He shook his head, _Don’t do that to yourself, Watson, you don’t know yet._

The man didn’t stop again. John was fairly oblivious to everything else around him, and only vaguely noticed that there were more people around, which should be odd. They crossed a busy intersection filled with cabs and other cars, but John ignored that, focused on the tall man, who seemed to be heading into a large well-lit building. 

Only when the man entered the building did John finally take in his surroundings. He was getting jostled a bit in the foot traffic since he was standing still. He stepped back a little, out of the way, and registered sirens approaching. He heard the front doors slide open, and a cacophony of sound spilled out, achingly familiar. John pressed a hand to his chest as his heart rate increased. Cold sweat began to gather at his temples and he breathed fast and deep. 

John looked up. 

Someone said something to him, but he couldn’t make it out over the roaring in his ears. Nausea roiled in his stomach and he took shallower, faster breaths to try to control it. His lips began to tingle, along with his fingers. He gagged once, then dropped to his knees and vomited.

John was hyperventilating in earnest now, and his vision was going gray around the edges. He was barely aware that there were several people around him now. They were asking him things, but he couldn’t respond. His teeth were chattering, but the rest of his body was wound tight.

He needed to go, get away from this place. Forcing himself to his feet and blindly shoving the passersby out of his way, he stumbled a few steps before breaking into a run.

Fueled by pure adrenaline, he sprinted through the streets, trying to put as much distance as possible as quickly as possible between himself and _that place._

John barreled through anyone that couldn’t get out of his way fast enough and almost caused more than a few accidents by darting into traffic, not caring that he was putting himself in danger, consumed with the need to get away. It took him just over an hour to get back to Baker Street, and he dragged himself up the stairs, hardly able to draw a full breath, soaked in sweat, and bleeding from various scrapes, mostly to his hands as he ricocheted off buildings during his mad scramble to escape. He made it through the door just as his knees buckled, sending him crashing to the floor. John lay there, just trying to breathe but failing, the last thought as he slipped into unconsciousness: “Please God, let me die.”

/*/*/*/

This dream started differently than the others. He was in a blank space. Just...nothing. He wasn’t even sure if he was standing or floating or falling. 

Then he heard it. A voice, but he couldn’t make out the words. He started to run, seeking out the voice, and it grew louder, calling his name.

“John!”

He stopped, panting, hands on his knees. “Who’s there? Where are you?” he shouted into the void.

“John! Follow it!”

The red bird glided down in front of him. John sprinted after it, the voice urging him on. “That’s it John! It will bring you to me! Keep going!”

“Sherlock! I’m coming for you! Hold on!” John knew it was Sherlock, it had to be.

“You’re almost there!”

“Sherlock!” John wasn’t catching up to the red bird, but he didn’t care. He was focused on getting to Sherlock. So focused that he almost missed when the silence of the void disappeared.

His running feet hadn’t made any noise in this place until now, when he began hearing a crunching every time they hit the ground. It sounded fleetingly familiar, like rough sand, or...

The tarmac on a roof.

The red bird dropped out of sight. John tried to stop, but his feet slid on the roof and he sailed over the edge, hearing Sherlock’s voice in his ear, “It’s all right John, you’re here now.”

/*/*/*/*/*/

John came back to awareness all at once and barely suppressed the sob in his chest, but not the tears that rolled freely down his cheeks. He buried his face in his arms and roared. He knew what the red bird was now.

Death.

Was that it then? Should that be his solution? John pulled himself from the floor onto the sofa and took the gun from his waistband, setting it gently, almost reverently, on the coffee table in front of him. The tears were still coming, but he felt calm, as if this were a simple decision. It _was_ a simple decision: either do it, or don’t. Easy.

Easy. He picked up the gun, made sure there was a round chambered, and flicked the safety off. He stood up, wavered a little as the room spun, and went into the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the tub, (no use making a mess) and looked at the gun one more time before bringing it to his mouth. He bit down on the barrel. He took a breath, and closed his finger on the trigger.

He heard Mrs Hudson’s toilet flush.

With a wail that was quickly stifled, John jerked the gun from his mouth. My God, Mrs Hudson would be the first to find me. The tears, which had slowed, started up again with a greater intensity. Wracked with heaving sobs now, he grabbed a towel from the back of the door to muffle his cries. Mrs Hudson could not find him like this, but he didn’t trust himself to be alone now. 

Towel in one hand and gun in the other, he weaved a drunken path through blurred vision back to the sofa. He looked at his hands, and dropped the towel, exchanging it for his phone. John called Lestrade. 

It was only after the third ring that John realized that it was after three in the morning and the man was probably asleep or on duty. Just as he was about to give up, the DI answered with a curt “Lestrade.”

John’s mouth opened and closed a few times, but he wasn’t able to get any words out, only a few hitching breaths.

There was silence for a few seconds, before Lestrade responded. “John? That you mate? Everything all right?”

“G-greg...I...”

“Just tell me where you are, John, I’m comin’ to you.”

John heard muffled rustling in the background, clothes being thrown on rapidly. “Baker Street.” It came out as a whimper.

“Right. Don’t move. Don’t do anything. I want you to stay exactly where you are. Keep your phone on and in your hands. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Okay.”

“Good. I need to hang up so I can drive, but you call me back if you need to, understand?”

“Okay.”

/*/*/*/*/*

John was motionless, a statue with a pulse. He’d followed Lestrade’s order to remain still, and only flinched to awareness when Lestrade knelt in front of him. 

“Greg, how…?”

“Mrs Hudson gave me a key a long time ago. Why don’t you give me the gun, John?”

John looked at his hands again. His right was still clutching the phone, and the left was clawed around the pistol. He frowned. “I—I can’t.”

“Yes you can John, you don’t need it.”

“No, I can’t. My hand...”

“Oh, okay. Um, can I?” Lestrade asked, and slowly reached for it. John nodded and Lestrade slowly uncurled John’s cramped fingers from the weapon, taking it from him and tucking it into his waistband.

Lestrade released a heavy sigh. “I’m glad you called, John. What can I do? How can I help?”

“I just want to sleep, Greg. I’m so...tired.” 

“All right mate. Here’s what we’ll do. You go up to bed. I’ll hang out here, clean up a little, then we can talk after you’ve slept. Sound like a plan?”

“Yeah, okay.” John didn’t want to talk, but he knew he had to now. He appreciated that Greg wasn’t pushing it. 

Greg followed him up to his room. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything. Just holler.”

“Thanks Greg.”

//*/*/*/*/*/

When John finally came down, he actually felt _decent_. It was nearing 2 in the afternoon, which meant that he’d slept for nearly 10 hours. He hadn’t dreamed at all.

True to his word, Greg was still there, standing in front of the telly with a mug in his hand, cursing softly at the contestants on some game show. He turned as John padded into the room.

“How are you feeling?”

John shrugged. “Better than before. I was able to sleep.”

“Good to hear. Mrs Hudson brought up some breakfast if you want. We should also probably take a look at your hands,” Lestrade said with a nod at them.

John flexed his fingers and winced. “Yeah.” They stood in awkward silence for a minute before John asked, “Is it all right if I take a quick shower?”

“Hey, it’s your place, mate, but, um, is there, you know, anything I should know about?”

John blinked. “’Anything you should know--’ Oh, oh no, no, there’s nothing like that.”

“Sorry, just wanted to be sure.”

“It’s okay. I guess you had to ask, considering.” John shook his head. “I’ll be out in a minute.” He went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. His eyes were still red-rimmed, puffy, and a little blood-shot. His hair was all over the place; it was so bad he actually chuckled. Looking down at his hands, he realized they weren’t in too terrible shape, but they were definitely sore and needed a good cleaning and maybe a few plasters. John reached over and turned the shower on, stripped out of his clothes, and got in, letting the warm water cascade over him for a few minutes before washing up, resolutely ignoring the sting in his hands from the soap and water. 

John didn’t take long, quickly finishing up and drying off. He threw the same clothes back on; no need to dirty more since these were just slept in. He joined Lestrade at the kitchen table, where the DI had a first-aid kit set out.

“There’s only a few that actually need anything. Just scrapes, mostly. Nothing deep.”

“Yeah they don’t look too bad. How’d this happen?” Lestrade asked, dabbing some ointment on one of the deeper cuts.

John winced and looked away. “I...fell.”

Lestrade looked up from his ministrations with a raised eyebrow. “Fell?”

“More than once. Probably. I was running.”

“Okay. Running where?”

“Here. Home.”

Lestrade put a plaster over a cut, then closed the kit. “Why?”

John pulled his hands into his lap. “I...was...somewhere I didn’t want to be.”

“All right. And what happened when you got here?”

“...You know.”

“I mean, I have a pretty good idea, but I don’t really _know_ , John. Help me out. Help me understand.”

“Well, first I passed out for a while.” Lestrade frowned. “I dreamed of—of the red bird, and I discovered what it meant.”

Lestrade looked confused and a little wary. “Red bird?”

“I’ve been dreaming of a red bird for months. It always led me to Sherlock’s grave, or his body in the coffin. I know it sounds crazy, but I think it’s, I don’t know, an omen or something. It led me off the roof when I was passed out, and I fell, like Sherlock. I thought--”

John cut himself off. 

“John?” Lestrade prompted.

John felt the burn of tears behind his eyes. “I just—I thought that if that’s what the red bird truly meant, then maybe I should do it and get it over with. I’ve been fighting for _so long_ , and I’m _so tired_. I just want it to stop. I want to stop dreaming. I don’t want things to be perfect, I just want them to be the same. Or am I waiting for a change that’s never coming?”

“Oh, John.” Lestrade leaned forward and wrapped John in a hug, ignoring the awkwardness of their seated positions at the table. John didn’t return it at first, limp and lifeless, but the dam finally broke and he sobbed into Lestrade’s shoulder. They stayed like that until John cried himself out. Lestrade’s shirt was more than a little damp when John pulled away, and he gave the DI a watery smile. 

“Sorry ‘bout your shirt, Greg.”

“Ah, it’ll dry. I’ll get you some tea.”

“That’s not—you don’t have—it’s my--” John stuttered as Lestrade poured him a cup. “You shouldn’t have to offer me tea in my own home, Greg,” he said as he took the proffered mug.

“It’s tea, John, I can handle it,” Lestrade said with a huff. 

They went back to the living room and sat quietly, drinking tea, before Lestrade broached the next subject. “What’s the map for?”

John sighed. “I was...looking for him. I know, I know,” he said, holding up a hand as Lestrade opened his mouth. “I _know_ , my brain knows, Greg, but I couldn’t accept that answer. You know him better than just about anyone; tell me you haven’t considered that it was all faked.”

“Yeah, yeah, I did, mate, but you saw him yourself, and so did Molly. It’s not possible. I wish to God it was.”

“My brain knows that, too,” John said quietly. “I don’t want to admit it to myself. Because that makes it real. And if it’s real, then...”

“Then what?”

John met Lestrade’s eyes. “Then what am I here for?” He ignored Lestrade’s pained gasp of his name, continuing, “I wasn’t good for much before him, so there’s not much after, right?”

“Wrong!” Lestrade shouted, and jumped to his feet, causing John to flinch. “You are so wrong, John Watson! You’re good on your own merits, merits that have nothing to do with Sherlock! Yeah, we met because of him, but you and I still have pub nights, you still go to medical conferences, you’re still a damn fine doctor, you’re still you! You’re everything a John Watson needs to be! No one wants or needs you to be a Sherlock clone!”

Lestrade stood there, breathing heavily as John blinked up at him in shock.

“I mean, one Sherlock was enough, and there’s always Mycroft, but he’s Sherlock cranked to eleven,” Lestrade added after he calmed down some.

That startled a laugh out of John, but he sobered quickly. “I just...I know it doesn’t make sense, but I didn’t feel so...alone when he was here. When I was living in that shitty bed-sit, there was nothing to motivate me to do anything. After moving here, with Sherlock, there was always something. A case, an experiment, a blog, an interview, something! Now...now I feel like I have nothing again.”

Lestrade frowned deeply and dropped back into a chair. “I think...you need to start over. Right now, you’re stuck in this rut, believing that without Sherlock, you have nothing to offer. That’s so far from the truth. I mean, you never introduced yourself to me as ‘Sherlock’s friend, John Watson.’ It was Doctor Watson. You’re a doctor first, right? Use that as motivation. Get your job back, but go somewhere new. Or maybe keep writing, publish the stories from the blog. Just don’t give up. You don’t have to be anchored by Sherlock. You can live for _you,_ John, yeah?”

John stared at Lestrade in something akin to wonder. It was so heartfelt, John wanted to believe he could do what Lestrade was talking about. “That all sounds good, but...”

“Anything you need, John, just ask. You want help sending out resumes? I can do that. You want help scoping out a new clinic? Count me in. You want to catch a football game on a Saturday? Let me know so I can take a day off. Anything, John, I mean it.”

“I—I’ll probably need a lot of help,” John admitted.

“No problem. We can start now. How about that map?” Lestrade asked, and stood up quickly.

“Wait, I--”

“John, this has to come down.”

“I know, let me do it,” John said, and grabbed a corner. He tugged, and the map came down with a tear and a crumpling of paper. He took a deep breath and balled it up tightly, then tossed it into the bin. John released a long breath and turned to Lestrade. “Greg, what about my gun? I don’t want--”

“Already taken care of, mate. Don’t worry about that. What else can I help with now?”

John took a look around, noticing that Lestrade must have taken out the rubbish at some point. He also noticed that he was starving, and couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. It had to be over twenty-four hours. “You said Mrs Hudson brought up breakfast?”

Lestrade nodded and headed into the kitchen. “Yeah, a full English. It’s been in the oven, so it should still be warm. You’ll need to make your own toast, though.”

“All right. Stay and have breakfast, Greg, then maybe you can help me get started on a cover letter.”

“Perfect idea, John.”

*/*/*/*/*/

The next few weeks weren’t without their challenges, but with Greg and Mrs Hudson pushing him more than ever, he was finally able to break the bad habits and deal with the dark places his mind still went on occasion. He stopped dreaming of the red bird, but still had nightmares. He was learning to work through them, however, sometimes by texting Lestrade, sometimes on his own. He was reading a lot more, whatever sounded vaguely interesting at the library. John found that focusing on a book or article helped him through panic attacks or the aftermath of a nightmare. It also helped him avoid some of the obsessive behavior that’d gotten him into trouble in the past: visiting Sherlock’s grave daily, drinking in excess (though he still didn’t trust himself with alcohol in the flat), staying up for days at a time. He used reading or word or number puzzles to wind down at night, instead of something overly stimulating, like going out to look for Sherlock. 

He was sitting in the flat at his computer, putting the finishing touches on his resume when he heard someone clear their throat behind him. He turned and saw Mycroft standing awkwardly (well, as awkwardly as Mycroft got) in the doorway.

“Mycroft.”

“John.”

They hadn’t spoken since that day at the cemetery several months ago. John still wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to think of Mycroft: on one hand, Mycroft’s game with Moriarty got Sherlock killed; on the other, Sherlock was his brother, and regardless of the bickering, John knew he cared.

“Tea?” John asked, getting up.

“Yes, thank you.”

Once the tea was ready, John motioned for Mycroft to sit. “What brings you here?”

“You, of course, John. You seem to be...on the mend.”

“Yeah I guess you could say that. I’m just going over my resume one last time before sending it out. Was there something specific you needed?” John couldn’t help his prickly tone.

Mycroft sighed. “No, is it so hard to believe that I wanted to check in? I know we haven’t been on the best terms recently, but your importance to Sherlock makes you important to me, regardless if he’s still here.”

John’s mouth dropped open at the admission, despite the round-about way it was worded. He quickly snapped it shut as Mycroft continued.

“For what it’s worth, John, I _am_ sorry. Neither Sherlock nor I anticipated this ending. I would...pay almost any price for this not to have happened.”

John shook his head. “I was angry, not just at you, but at Sherlock, and especially myself. I was with him at the end; I should’ve seen it coming and done something.”

“There was nothing you could have done. Whatever drove Sherlock to that decision, he would have already considered the alternatives. He chose the only option. You mustn’t blame yourself.”

“I try not to...but...”

“Yes, I know. It’s hard, isn’t it?”

John looked at Mycroft, truly looked, and saw a tired man, as tired as John himself had ever been. The signs were subtle, but John knew what to look for: dark circles under his eyes weren’t uncommon for the government man, but these were darker than usual. He wasn’t as filled out as he used to be either; Sherlock would have a hard time making fun of him for his weight now. His hair seemed slightly thinner as well, and his skin paler. Sherlock’s death affected Mycroft more than he let on. 

“Mycroft, are you--”

“Well, thank you for the tea, John, but I should be going.” He stood to leave.

“Wait! Uh, Lestrade and I were planning on watching the game this weekend, and I know that’s probably not your thing, but do you want to stop by here for drinks afterwards?”

Mycroft graced him with a faint smirk. “Quite correct about football, but I may join you for a nightcap.” He inclined his head. “John.”

John nodded in return as the other man left. He felt a bit lighter in finally clearing the air between him and Mycroft, and treated it as one more step in moving forward from “the night with the gun.” 

Sitting back down at his laptop, John went back to the cover letter, intending to complete this step too.


End file.
